


5 (Attempts at) Love Languages

by likeabirdinflight



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Not Beta Read, Sharing a Couch, Vignettes, i just realized i never gave hawke a first name, mainly set in act 2, mentions of the cast are there but sparse and vague, more or less canonical, rated M for cursing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-13
Updated: 2021-02-13
Packaged: 2021-03-12 22:48:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,219
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29392221
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/likeabirdinflight/pseuds/likeabirdinflight
Summary: Varric Tethras and Hawke have never been good at being honest with one another. One "lies a lot," and the other defaults to sarcasm and deflection. So where does it leave the two of them?Five vignettes study their five attempts at love languages: words of affirmation, receiving gifts, acts of service, quality time, and physical touch.
Relationships: Hawke/Varric Tethras, Male Hawke/Varric Tethras
Comments: 6
Kudos: 7
Collections: Hightown Funk 2020





	5 (Attempts at) Love Languages

**Author's Note:**

  * For [fuIImetal](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fuIImetal/gifts).



****

#####  **Words**

Something crinkled against the bottom of his foot. His brows furrowed. He sighed, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. His hand fished around the inside of the boot, plucking the offending piece of parchment from the toe. It was the tenth one he had found this morning, and Hawke was beginning to wonder just how many they had planted. Could be dozens. ‘Could be hundreds,’ he thought.

Maker, he hoped not. Otherwise, it’d take him weeks, possibly even months or Andraste forbid, years to find them all.

“Just how drunk was I last night?”

Varric must have gotten help from some of the others. Hawke guessed that the more whimsical, obscure ones were from Merrill (‘Your eyes are like aged honey. … Wait, honey doesn’t expire, does it? How does one “age” honey, anyways? I’ll have to look into this.), and the saucy, licentious ones Isabela (‘You make people fall to their knees in admiration. I’d fall to my knees anytime to worship that [xxxx].)

Hawke couldn’t even say for sure that Varric was the mastermind behind it all. But he could blame him, all the same.

Carefully, he unfolded the paper, taking care to smooth out the wrinkles.Yup, this one had to be Varric’s, based on the loopy scrawl.

 _‘Time to put your best foot forward,’_ it read.

Hawke flopped back onto his bed with a groan. “Very punny,” he voiced aloud, as if Varric were in the room with him. “One might say that that was a little _corny_.” He snickered at that. “Get it? Like a corn on your foot? Ah, forget it.”

He pushed himself back up and slipped the parchment into a side pocket. ‘Should probably add that to the collection,’ he thought, thinking of the desk drawer downstairs that was littered with them. He jammed one foot into the now-empty boot, but was met with another crunch in the other.

His guffaw echoed through the chamber. “You can’t be serious.” Picking up the boot, he gave it a shake, dislodging the crumpled ball. He let the boot tumble to the floor as he pried open this new message.

_‘Gotta keep you on your toes, Champ.’_

And was that an actual winking face?

Oh, he was definitely going to get Varric back after this. 

. . . 

_A few weeks later…_

. . . 

Varric awoke to the pounding sensation in his head. Like a hammer to steel. Or fists against the bartop when coaxed to knock back a pint in one breath. Ugh, he might have done that last night. Not entirely certain of how many times he did it, though.

Though, the whole evening was a bit hazy, if he were being honest with himself.

His stomach felt like it was in literal knots, and when he sat up, he had to take a moment for his vision to stop rocking like the deck of a ship in a storm on the Waking Sea.

Fuck, he felt like shit.

“I’m done drinking,” he croaked. Immediately he knew that was a lie, figuring fully well that by the end of the week (if not by this evening), he’d be drinking again.

He could taste the alcohol from last night on his tongue. Grimacing, he reached blindly for the flagon of water on his bedside table. And was met with the feeling of… parchment? He grabbed it, eyes straining to read the scratchy penmanship.

_‘Seas the day.’_

Accompanied by a crude sketch of a tropical seaside. Par Vollen, maybe.

_‘Love, Hawke.’_

Varric snorted. “That’s pretty good, Hawke,” he said, grabbing the mug and taking a few slow, greedy gulps. He set the mug down and sat for a moment, testing his resolve (and his insides). Vaguely satisfied, he pushed the blankets off of himself, and swung his feet to the floor. Something crunched beneath his heels. His tired eyes glanced at the slippers at the side of his bed. He lifted one to eye level, but his eyes focused on the opposite wall slowly coming into focus.

Bits and scraps of paper littered the walls, the furniture, the floor. Not even hidden from view. Just everywhere. Like there had been a whirlwind in his room.

A whirlwind named Hawke.

He reached for the paper in his slipper, unfolded it, and read, _‘Start today off on the right foot, o’ Master Storyteller!’_

Varric laughed, regretting it as his stomach roiled.

“Well, shit. Touché, Hawke.”

. . . 

He spent a good part of his morning plotting Round Two.

\- - - 

****

#####  **Gifts**

It was burning a hole in his pocket.

Finding it had been a curious twist of fate.

Hawke hadn’t even been looking for it. He had just been meandering through Lowtown--you know, the usual--browsing through the different shop stalls, peeking through their wares.

Merrill had even compared him once to a magpie -- “You really like shiny things. They also like shiny things. Oh! You’ve even got a bird-like name! See?”

He couldn’t help it. Maybe it was from growing up poor and having nothing nice for very long. Or maybe it was the want to make a statement. Like the red smeared across the bridge of his nose.

He just liked collecting little mementos in order to remember things by. A necklace with a sun charm for Bethany. A mabari molded out of glass for Carver. A silver brooch for Mother.

He also looked for trinkets to give as gifts. (Well, the shield for Aveline hadn’t been so little, but.) He enjoyed the looks on his friends’ faces with each present--Isabela, Fenris, Anders, Merrill, Sebastian. His friends meant the whole bloody world to him, and he wanted to make sure that they knew that.

The sign of the Hanged Man creaked above him in the midday breeze. His thumb trailed over the ring, trying to find comfort in it like a worry stone.

He was stalling. He wasn’t even sure why.

“Alright, you’ve got this, Hawke,” he told himself, ignoring whatever stares were directed his way. His feet moved of their own accord, his thoughts miles away, as he wrenched open the door and passed through the tavern and up the stairs to Varric’s private suite.

His knuckles rapped against the doorframe and then strode through, a blasé swagger to his stride.

Before Varric could even muster a hello, Hawke greeted him with a, “I’ve got something for you, Varric.”

That certainly piqued the dwarven man’s interests. His expression quickly turned into wrinkles of incredulity and hesitation. Several years of friendship, and Varric knew better than to trust whatever Hawke threw his way.

And threw it Hawke did. The small pouch sailed in an arc towards Varric, who barely had time to put down his pen before catching it. The creases between his brows deepened. “What is this?” he asked, his eyes trailing Hawke. The larger man dragged a chair opposite of the desk before draping himself in it.

“Open it and find out. It’s not going to bite,” Hawke teased, flashing a brilliant, playful smile. He kicked his foot, his leg draped over the arm. Trying to play it cool, despite the nerves underneath.

Varric exhaled, his eyes rolling as he muttered something under his breath. Something that sounded an awful lot like, “Andraste’s ass, Hawke.”

The tonal shift that followed was palpable, almost suffocating in this small chamber, as Varric withdrew the ring and inspected it. His eyes flickered to Hawke, back to the ring, then back to Hawke.

“My father’s signet ring?”

Hawke just smiled back at him, for once without a quip in return.

Varric continued, in awe, “Where did you find it?” Hawke shrugged back. Varric studied the ring again. “Bartrand pawned it off to pay for the expedition.” Back to Hawke. “I can’t believe you found it!” And with a raspy chuckle, “This sounds exactly like the sort of fake thing I’d make up about you.”

Hawke pointed a finger at him. “When you tell people, mention that I got it from the belly of a dragon.”

Varric snorted at this. “I’ll throw in a couple werewolves and a griffon for balance.”

“Oh, you’d better.”

Varric sighed, turning the ring in his fingers. “Well, maybe now my contacts at the gates of Orzammar won’t ignore my letters. Harrowmont is hoping that if he just shuts his eyes tight and wishes, the real world will go away.”

Hawke hummed in response.

It fell silent between the two of them, with Varric gazing at the ring, and Hawke becoming acutely aware of the butterflies in his stomach. He shifted to his feet, deciding to make his escape now, before insightful Varric could see through his facade.

At the sudden movement, Varric glanced up. “Anyway, I owe you one, Hawke. Remind me later to put you on my tab.”

Hawke grinned at this, ignoring the swell of butterflies in his torso. “Sounds like a deal to me.”

\- - - 

****

#####  **Services**

“Hawke, lay your ass back down. You’ve got a gaping hole in your chest.”

Hawke groaned in frustration, immediately regretting the pain that spidered across his abdomen.

“It’s in my stomach, not my chest,” he hissed through clenched teeth, his head hitting the headboard as he stared at the ceiling of his chamber.

“Well, when I write your biography, it’ll be your chest. I’ve gotta give it a little extra drama.”

“I thought it was plenty dramatic enough. You know, nearly dying and all that.”

“Not with you, Hawke. Never with you.”

It was day eight of bedrest, as demanded by the local apostate physician, and Hawke was losing his damn mind to boredom. There was only so much sleeping or reading he could do. His body was itching to move, to fight, to drink until the searing torture in his torso was numb. But the man was hardly allowed to breathe or piss by himself without someone at his side. Merrill had even tried to spoon-feed him porridge (which he’d protested, by the way. But she was quite determined. And had succeeded, in the long run).

If he had had more mobility, or more strength, maybe it wouldn’t have been as awful.

But right now, he felt useless. Weak. Exposed. And it ate away at him, revealing the frustration and irritability underneath.

He didn’t like that he had lashed out at his friends. And felt horribly guilty about it. And had apologized. And they’d return his apologies with looks of pity, which made him feel even worse. (Well, not Fenris. Maker’s breath, if Fenris had given him a look of pity, which wasn’t possible, but just theoretically speaking, if he had, Hawke would have died on the spot. Of embarrassment. Died of horror and embarrassment, right then and there.)

Varric started moving towards him with a cup of water, and Hawke froze. He knew where this was going.

“I don’t want it.”

“What do you mean you don’t want it?”

“I can do it myself. I don’t need you babying me.” Hawke struggled to push himself further up against the pillows.

Varric scoffed, then laughed. “I’m not babying you, Hawke. I’m helping you. There’s a difference.”

“There is not. I can do it just fine on my own.”

Pain flared across his stomach. A hiss escaped his lips as he recoiled, his eyes screwed shut. Willing the pain to go away wasn’t working.

He felt the mattress dip as Varric sat, sighing. “I bet you can, champ. But not today. Give yourself a break.” And more softly, “You deserve it.”

Hawke huffed.

“Let me help you.” It wasn’t a suggestion.

Hawke let it hang in the air for a moment.

Fine. That was close enough to their regular banter, Hawke supposed. He could accept that.

With a dramatic sigh, he groaned, “Fine. But I’m not happy about it.”

And regretted the immediate intimacy of Varric helping him drink. Hawke nearly choked on the water and could feel his face reddening as the pewter pressed against his lips. He felt as if he’d stuck his head and chest into a burning oven. Thank the Maker above that the lighting was low in his chamber--otherwise, he might die.

Yeah, there were a lot of thoughts of dying of embarrassment in his head right now.

“See? That wasn’t so bad.”

Hawke huffed again.

“Next, we can try sponge-bathing you.”

Oh, surely Varric was taking the piss out of him. Surely. Had to be. 

… Was he serious? 

_Sweet Andraste, take me now._

\- - - 

****

#####  **Moments**

Hawke spent as little time in the estate now. Sure, Sandal, Bodahn, and Orana were there, but they weren’t his family. His family was gone.

For the time being, he had dismissed them--Sandal, Bodahn, and Orana. “A paid vacation,” Varric had called it. It wouldn’t be forever.

But right now. Right now, there were a whole bunch of emotions all knotted up in his gut, and on the few occasions he had tried to unravel them, they just became more tangled.

So, this was better for him. Avoiding them.

Sure, maybe he was being a coward about it. He knew he couldn’t run away from all of his feelings.

But he was going to revisit them. Just at a later point. Once he got his head screwed on right.

And dear Maker, was his head all sorts of screwy.

Things had been getting…

Well.

_Interesting._

With Varric.

And not interesting as in, _horribly_ interesting. Or interesting enough to write a novel about. Or to really talk to anyone about.

Just interesting as in… _complicated._

Though ‘complicated’ didn’t really cover the nuance of the situation, either.

Hawke sighed. His crossed arms tightened over his chest.

“They say that sighing makes you older,” chimed Varric from his desk, amber eyes peering over the reading glasses on the end of his nose.

Yeah, things were complicated. As much as his feelings about Varric, concerning Varric, made no sense, he craved his presence. And so here he was, taking up space in Varric’s suite, brooding.

“I thought the saying was that sighing makes you shorter.”

One of Varric’s brows raised.

“Is that so? You humans are so interesting.”

“Yeah, I guess you can’t get much shorter as a dwarf.”

Varric lobbed a paper ball at Hawke. “As if we enjoy being eye-level with everyone’s asses.”

“Hey, I’ve heard that my ass is great.”

Varric hummed in response. “Your ego is inflated enough. You don’t need me to tell you. I struggle just trying to keep you in check.”

“So you have been thinking about my ass?”

“... No comment.”

See? It was shite like that. Shite like that that got his mind all discombobulated.

There was something new to their whole routine, with how they interacted with each other. Things were changing, and Hawke wasn’t sure how much he liked it. For once, he just wanted something in his life to stay the same. To stay familiar, and comfortable. To not get all complicated and confusing.

Varric was his constant, his comfort. His anchor in this sea of… whatever. (Hawke wasn’t a storyteller. He left that to Varric with his similes and metaphors and alliteration.)

But that’s what Hawke liked. He liked spending time with Varric, even if they sat around in the same space, doing their own things, sitting in relative silence. There was something comforting about that, and much more inviting than sitting in that large manor alone with the maelstrom in his head.

He could feel Varric’s eyes on him.

“Yes, Varric?”

“Penny for your thoughts?”

The eyeglasses were off now, and Varric sat at his desk with his hands clasped in front of him.

Oh, now this was dangerous.

His fingers drummed against his thigh. “Just thinking,” was Hawke’s non-committal answer.

“About?” Varric pressed.

“Things.”

“Any specific kinds of things?”

There was a long-drawn sigh from Hawke.

“Not really.”

Varric waited for a moment, as Hawke avoided prolonged eye contact with him. With a nod, he placed the glasses back on his nose. “Well,” he started, going back to his work, “I’m always here if you need me.”

Hawke swallowed, and nodded.

Fuck.

These tender moments (well, what he would call ‘tender,’ compared to their more typical banter) with Varric had been occurring more frequently. Things like lingering gazes. Gentle tones. Comfortable silences in each other’s company.

Hawke had no idea what to make of them.

But he found himself yearning for those little things.

Despite the confusion and the muddied thoughts.

And the very complex feelings he pushed further and further down.

Maybe they’d just go away if he stopped thinking about them.

He couldn’t complicate things. Didn’t want to complicate things. Just the thought of it terrified him.

“Maybe I should go,” he heard himself saying, already on his feet. “I feel like I’m bothering you.”

He was nearly to the door when Varric spoke. “Hey.” Hawke paused. “Stay. Please.” His eyes swept over to the dwarf, now on his feet, who seemed just as confused by his words as Hawke was. “I like having you here.” A bashful expression crossed his face, and he rubbed the back of his neck. His eyes wouldn’t meet Hawke’s now. “It’s nice.”

Hawke lingered at the door for a moment, his hand pressed against the wooden door frame.

_Oh, Maker, we’re really in it now._

His hand slid off the doorframe.

He bobbed his head at Varric, then smiled. “Okay.”

\- - - 

****

#####  **Touches**

This was nice. A little _vin chaud_ in his belly, his friends’ company, Wintersend presents and gift-wrapping strewn all about.

The rest of the group were slumbering. Fenris was curled up in front of the fireplace with pillows and quilts, with Hawke’s Mabari curled up against his back. Isabela and Merrill were curled up together in one of the large armchairs, with Anders in the opposite. Sebastian crashed on Hawke’s bed earlier in the evening, and seemed quite content having it all to himself. And Aveline had headed home to Donnic hours ago.

That left Varric and Hawke on the couch, with Varric asleep against Hawke’s side. Maybe it was the wine, but Hawke couldn’t quite remember how the two of them got into this position. Not that he minded, really. It was comforting, the sound of Varric’s even breathing, the crackling fire, the light snores from Sebastian and the dog.

One of the best Wintersends he’d had in a long while. His friends, his companions, his found family, had made it absolutely amazing, and had distracted him from the void in his heart for his family.

And Varric?

Varric meant more to him than he could have ever imagined. The one constant in his life. His anchor, his rock. His confidant, his something-more-than-a-friend. What exactly that meant, Hawke wasn’t sure. Not entirely. But they were working on it. No label currently. Not yet, anyways.

They’d figure it out eventually. Once things slowed down.

So Hawke made sure to enjoy every moment like this.

Pulling him close, he pecked the top of Varric’s head and muttered, “Happy Wintersend, Varric.”

“You, too, Hawke,” came the grumbled reply. “Now stop sniffing my hair.” And pulled Hawke’s arm tighter around him.

His cheeks hurt from smiling. He gave one last defiant sniff before snuggling into the corner of the couch, full of wine, full of joy, full of that four-letter word.

You know the one. 

. . . 

. . . 

And no, not fuck.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! I hope you all enjoyed it~ <3


End file.
